


Sick, Sweat, Sleep

by LostCol



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Brief Smut, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Sickfic, Sweat, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25060603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCol/pseuds/LostCol
Summary: Armie nurses Timmy through a bout of food poisoning.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	1. Third Person/Armie

**Author's Note:**

> So this is technically a one-shot. The reason it’s three chapters is because I couldn’t decide which voice to write it in, so I ended up writing the whole thing in 3rd person/Armie POV (chapter 1), 1st person Timmy POV (chapter 2), and 1st person Armie POV (chapter 3). I figured I’d post them all because some people (like me) might like reading about the same set of events from different perspectives. So… enjoy!
> 
> These are fictionalized versions of real people, story is 100% fiction. As far as I know. ;)

They’re fucking in the shower for the first time in a week, and Armie can’t remember why it’s been so long. Because god, he loves how Timmy smells in here, hot and wet and clean. And how Timmy _feels_ in here, soft and smooth and _…_ wet.

Armie thrusts steadily while he grips Timmy’s hip and shoulder, his fingers pressing in hard enough to leave marks. Marks Timmy will run his long fingers over later, peering up at Armie through his eyelashes, a satisfied grin on his face.

As that beautiful image lodges itself firmly in Armie’s mind, the thrill of anticipation spurs him to thrust harder and faster. Timmy braces himself against the glass, his heavy panting fogging it up, and he reaches back with one hand to squeeze Armie’s thigh.

When he knows they’re both about to tip over the edge, Armie reaches around to work Timmy’s cock, but before he can close his hand around it, Timmy moans and slumps forward.

Without coming.

Armie lurches forward when Timmy barely catches himself on the glass, wrapping one arm around Timmy’s chest and throwing his other out to catch them both against the wall. He tries to catch his breath while he supports Timmy’s trembling body, but his heart jumps into his throat when he gets a good look at the kid and sees that Timmy’s eyes are squeezed shut like he’s in pain, and he’s not supporting his own weight.

“Tim?”

…

“TIMMY.”

Nothing, and he feels like dead weight slumped between Armie and the wall. Trying not to descend into full panic mode, Armie pins Timmy against his chest, turns off the water, and drags him out of the shower. He stumbles and lands heavily on the toilet, nearly falling off before Armie grabs his shoulders to steady him, and once he’s upright, he drops his head into his hands and moans. Not knowing what else to do, Armie crouches in front of the toilet, gripping Timmy’s thighs and readying himself to grab him if he passes out. He feels utterly helpless crouching there on the floor while the poor kid sits there shuddering, pale as a sheet, and after a few minutes of casting around for something useful to do, he reaches up to brush Timmy’s dripping hair off his forehead. As soon as his fingers brush Timmy’s skin, Timmy’s head shoots up and he makes brief, terrified eye contact with Armie before he lurches up suddenly, almost knocking Armie over in the process, stumbling and falling against the counter a split second before he violently throws up into the sink.

Armie jumps up and rushes to Timmy, grabbing him under his armpits to haul him a little more upright over the sink. While he watched the kid vomit, he feels conflicting flashes of sympathy that Timmy is so sick, and relief that now he feels like he has a better handle on what’s going on. It’s probably food poisoning, right? Or maybe the flu?

Armie rubs Timmy’s back while he coughs and spits, and makes sure none of Timmy’s curls are in the line of fire. He’s relieved when Timmy finally rinses his mouth out and slumps over the counter. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he looks better already, not quite so pale or shaky, and with Armie’s relief comes a sudden awareness of his rapidly cooling skin. He grabs two towels from the heated rack and wraps one around Timmy’s shoulders, giving the now shivering kid a firm rubdown, before securing the other one around his own waist.

“Better now?”

Timmy nods heavily and looks up at Armie in the mirror, giving him a faint smile. Luckily, the nausea and dizziness that had come on so suddenly in the shower had passed just as quickly, as soon as he’d thrown up.

“Bad lunchmeat,” he croaks out.

Armie manages not to laugh in relief as his still-pounding heart slows to a steadier pace. He tows an exhausted Timmy into the bedroom, sliding his arm around his waist to lend support as Timmy sags against him. They had plans tonight, and should be getting ready to go out, but as drained as he is, Timmy can’t bring himself to protest being put to bed. He drops heavily once Armie has pulled back the covers and curls up on his side, sighing as he settles in. Armie sits beside him and leans over to kiss Timmy’s ear and brush the damp curls off his face, and then he just keeps running his fingers through Timmy’s hair, rubbing his scalp with gentle pressure, while he watches Timmy’s body relax into sleep.

For a few minutes, Armie watches Timmy twitch and moan, obviously still uncomfortable even in sleep, and he remembers the last time he had food poisoning. He had tried, against his better judgement, an obviously sketchy restaurant (that ended up closing three months later, go figure), and he’d ended up hugging the toilet bowl for two hours that night before dragging himself to bed and sleeping until the next afternoon.

When he’s sure Timmy’s sleeping soundly, he climbs off the bed as quietly as he can, careful not to wake Timmy, finishes drying off, and throws on an old, soft pair of sweatpants. They’ll obviously be cancelling their plans tonight. Armie puts some water by the bed in case Timmy wakes up thirsty, then he cleans out the bathroom sink, trying not to look too closely. He’s just grateful Timmy made it, and that he’s not cleaning up vomit spewed across the floor and vanity. While he’s doing that, he props his phone between his shoulder and cheek and calls Nick. The call connects after four rings, and he hears Nick’s loud “Hello?” over music in the background.

“Hey man, we’re not coming.”

“No, come on, Armie! Why not?”

“Timmy’s sick, we’re staying in.”

“Oh. Shit. Is he okay?”

“Yeah, we’re pretty sure it’s food poisoning. He’ll be fine, but he’s definitely not up for going out tonight.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He can hear the disappointment in Nick’s tone, but there’s no helping that.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“All right yeah, that sounds good. Tell him to feel better.”

“Will do.”

Armie grabs himself a beer and then settles back down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. His stomach drops when he looks down at Timmy, curled into a ball beside him. He looks so small and delicate to Armie, and vulnerable, somehow. He just looks… helpless, and defenseless, and Armie knows it’s totally irrational, but his hand is halfway to Timmy’s shoulder to shake him awake, to see his eyes, to get some reassurance, before he realizes what he’s doing and pulls back his hand. He mentally kicks himself and reminds himself, yet again, that he’s got to get over this ridiculous overprotectiveness. It’s just food poisoning, he’s _fine_.

Timmy sighs and rolls over then, running his hand through his hair, bumping his arm into Armie’s leg when he settles on his back. His eyes pop open, and Armie smiles down at him, but he just looks from Armie to the clock and back again with an adorably confused expression on his face, and then he moves to get up.

“Shit, Armie, we need to get dressed.”

His voice is raspy and weak, and Armie can’t help laughing. As if Timmy’s in any state to go out. His voice is wrecked, his face and chest are flushed, and his skin feels hot when Armie grabs his arm. Armie wonders if he has a fever.

“Don’t be silly, we’re not going anywhere. I already called Nick.”

Timmy gives Armie a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised.

“You should go.”

Armie can’t hide the surprise that flashes across his face. He knows Timmy’s been wanting a night in with him, even if these aren’t exactly the circumstances he was imagining.

“Nope, you’re stuck with me.”

Armie’s hurt that Timmy think he’s the kind of person who would ditch his sick boyfriend for a casual social event, and he’s happy when Timmy shoots him an uncertain half smile and flops back down on the bed, sprawling on his back.

Armie pulls Timmy’s towel out from where it had ended up wedged between the covers and offers Timmy his hands to pull him back into a seated position. He’s rubbing Timmy’s still damp hair with the towel and making smoldering eye contact with the kid when a violent shiver rocks through his slim body, so Armie wraps the towel back around him shoulders and rubs his back when he sinks into Armie’s chest. His damp hair is cold on Armie’s shoulder, and he feels a little feverish where his forehead is resting against Armie’s neck, and Armie is just starting to kick himself for letting Timmy fall asleep without drying off, when Timmy says “Thank you,” his breath tickling Armie’s skin.

“For what?”

Timmy sighs like he’s upset.

“For taking care of me. For staying with me. I’m sorry about the bathroom.”

Armie knows Timmy’s always been a little insecure in their relationship, no matter how many times Armie tell him he’s brilliant, and beautiful, and hilarious, and way too good for an oaf like him. And sometimes he wonders if they’ll ever get past this place Timmy seems to be stuck in, this place where he insists Armie go out without him when he’s less than an hour out from vomiting and nearly passing out, where he’s _apologizing_ for getting sick in the first place. But knowing it’s probably pointless to reiterate all of this, especially with how shitty Timmy feels right now, he just pulls Timmy tight against his chest and tilts his head back to kiss him. His mouth feels like a furnace when he opens it for Armie.

Yup, he’s definitely feverish. They really need to get him dry and dressed.

Armie breaks away from the kiss, forcing himself to ignore the quiet sound of disappointment Timmy makes, and he tosses a pair of Timmy’s briefs, sweatpants, a t-shirt, and some socks onto the bed, but he hesitates when he reaches for a sweatshirt. Timmy’s eyes definitely look glassy now, so between that, the flushed, hot skin, and the oven-like mouth, Armie knows he has a fever. What he doesn’t know is whether he should wrap Timmy up in layers since he’s always cold, or dress him lightly so his temperature will come down. He hesitates in front of the dresser for a solid minute debating before deciding against the sweatshirt, and he turns back to the bed to help Timmy get dressed. His arms feel kind of limp when Armie pulls them through the shirt sleeves, and Timmy’s version of “help me put your sweatpants on, come on, Tim,” is to wriggle around on his back and lift his butt two inches off the mattress. He’s looking more and more exhausted with each passing minute, so Armie hands him the water glass he set by the bed earlier so Timmy will drink it before he falls back asleep. He just stares at it in his hand.

“That’s for drinking, Timmy. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a fever, and you don’t want to get dehydrated.”

Timmy rolls his eyes, but he nods and downs the water. Too quickly, of course; he almost chokes, and hacks some up onto the comforter. The kid’s a mess.

Armie cuts off Timmy’s apology – “Oh shit, I’m—“ – as soon as he opens his mouth, and he sheepishly follows Armie to the living room where he settles onto the couch, while Armie puts on some random old movie that’s playing on cable. Armie ducks into the bedroom quickly to change the damp sheets and throw everything into the hamper, and when he gets back out to the living room, Timmy’s sprawled across the couch, fast asleep.

Armie looks down at him, his eyes tracing over Timmy’s flushed cheeks, his slightly parted lips, his curls tumbling across his forehead, and he reaches out to trace a finger gently down the soft curve of Timmy’s face. Timmy sighs at his touch and scrunches his shoulder up toward where Armie’s hand is, and Armie chuckles affectionately. He perches on the edge of the couch and wakes Timmy up just enough to slide in behind him, then Armie wraps his arms around Timmy and shifts his body more or less on top of his own. Timmy feels warm against Armie, almost like a weighted blanket, and Armie finds himself relaxing under the comforting weight. Timmy starts to shiver after a few minutes, so Armie pulls down the blanket from the back of the couch and settles it over them, and he’s glad that he thought to put socks on Timmy’s generally subarctic feet.

Timmy’s head is heavy against Armie’s chest and his eyes are half closed, so Armie runs his fingers slowly through Timmy’s hair, helping him drift back off. Timmy sighs in contentment, and he stops shivering a few minutes later, his body relaxing into Armie’s as he falls more deeply asleep. He looks so young like this, even younger than he is, flushed and small, curled up on Armie’s chest. Armie runs his thumb over the pink spot on Timmy’s cheek and his skin feels warm, despite the chills.

That overwhelming urge to protect surges through Armie again, and he forces himself to suppress it. Timmy already resents how much Armie takes care of him. Or rather, he resents how much he’s _needed_ taking care of. He wants to be able to stand on his own two feet, and he can, of course he can. But Armie doesn’t understand why he should have to all the damn time, when Armie’s there to lighten the load a little? Timmy does the same for Armie, and he knows it.

Armie’s grateful when sudden gunfire on the TV breaks off that extremely unproductive train of thought, and he feels Timmy’s arms tighten around him as he inhales sharply in surprise. Armie looks down and sees Timmy staring at the movie through slitted eyed, but within seconds, he relaxes again and his eyes close. He’s drifting in and out, and Armie tries not to wake him when Timmy flushes red again, and Armie pushes the blanket down to his waist.

Armie is well aware of the bottomless well of love he has for Timmy, but he’s still a little amazed at how safe and at peace he feels lying here with Timmy draped over him, even though they’re missing plans with friends, even though Timmy is sick and exhausted. Armie finds that none of that matters when Timmy’s reassuring weight is pressing down on him, his heart beating steadily under Armie’s hand as he brushes it lightly up and down Timmy’s back.

After a while, Armie feels his eyes getting heavier, and without having been aware of falling asleep, he opens them to a quiet, dark apartment. The TV is on an autotimer that shuts it off at midnight, so there’s no way of knowing how long they’ve been sleeping, but when Armie shifts slightly and feels a twinge in his back, he knows it’s been a while.

Taking stock of the situation, Armie feels Timmy’s breath hot on his chest, slow and even, and he doesn’t want to wake him, but he’s got to get off this couch. So, moving slowly, he sits up and shifts Timmy’s smaller body onto his lap, sliding his arms behind Timmy’s shoulders and under his knees. He freezes when Timmy murmurs and snuggles deeper into him, tightening his grip where he’s closed his hand around Armie’s bicep, and Armie heaves a sigh of relief when he doesn’t fully wake up. Armie has always appreciated their size difference; he loves wrapping his hands around Timmy’s small waist, tossing him around in bed, the way Timmy pushes up onto his toes to kiss Armie, but he’s especially grateful at times like this that Timmy’s smaller size enables him to carry the kid.

Armie leaves the blanket over Timmy when he stands, not wanting a sudden cold draft to wake him, and he walks slowly to the bedroom, laying him down gently on the bed. Timmy immediately curls around a pillow, and when Armie lays down next to him and pulls the covers over them, Timmy turns over in his sleep and leans his forehead against Armie’s chest, still clutching the pillow to his stomach. Wondering if he has a stomachache, Armie skims his fingers lightly up Timmy’s arm, his shoulder, across his collarbone, up his neck, and then across his cheekbone, watching Timmy’s features smooth out under his gentle touch. Satisfied that he’s okay for the time being, Armie curls around him and buries his face in Timmy’s hair. It’s slightly damp, from sweat, Armie realizes, but underneath his current sickly/sweaty smell, Armie can still make out traces of Timmy’s minty shampoo, and Armie’s lips curl into a smile as falls asleep, breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent.

>>>>>

The next time Armie opens his eyes, sunlight is streaming through the windows, and it takes his groggy brain a minute to realize he’s alone in bed, and then another few seconds for the worry to hit.

Hoping against hope that Timmy isn’t still sick, Armie listens intently for a few seconds, but he doesn’t hear any noise coming from the bathroom. He stretches his back out and gets up to go searching, and as soon as he steps out of the bedroom, he relaxes at the sight of Timmy standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water. He looks a thousand times better, and he smiles when he sees Armie approaching.

“Feeling better?”

Armie foregoes the motherly back of the hand on the forehead and gently pulls Timmy toward him, leaning his forehead against his. Timmy does feel cooler, and his eyes are clear when they meet Armie’s.

“You feel cooler.”

“Yeah, I feel fine.” Timmy’s voice is still raspy, but much clearer and stronger than last night. “Just gross. I really need to shower, I must have been sweating all night.”

He did, in fact, soak through the sheets, and Armie will have to change them again _and_ wash the comforter, but Timmy’s already blushing, and Armie doesn’t want him to feel bad, so he keeps that to himself.

“No more sketchy lunchmeat then?”

Timmy tinges green and shakes his head. Armie chuckles, but makes a mental note not to bring it up again. However… “Want to have some breakfast in a bit?” He’ll need to ease food back into his system at some point, and Armie figures that as long as he’s not feeling nauseous, the sooner the better.

“You’re still a little pale, you should probably eat something.”

Timmy glances toward the bathroom and flushes like he’s embarrassed.

“Mmm… Maybe.”

“Something plain.”

“Definitely something plain.”

Timmy sets his glass in the sink and then heads toward the shower, and Armie strips as he follows him, jumping into the cool water for a few seconds to rinse Timmy’s dried sweat off his skin. Timmy glances at Armie self-consciously as he rinses off, and he makes no move to touch Armie as he very thoroughly cleans himself. Yup, he’s definitely embarrassed.

Armie figures he could use some space, so he gives Timmy a big, hopefully reassuring, smile before getting out of the shower, toweling off, and leaving the bathroom to get dressed, leaving Timmy to his scrubbing.

This is the sickest Armie has ever seen Timmy, and he starts to wonder just how self-conscious he’s feeling about all of it. But he really needn’t have worried, because when Timmy comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Armie catches the appreciate once-over Timmy gives him before he catches Armie’s eye and blushes again, and Armie returns Timmy’s sheepish grin with a blinding smile.

Armie leaves Timmy to dress, debating as he strolls out of the bedroom how much recovery time will be needed before they can finish last night’s fuck.


	2. Timmy

Fuck, I love when he fucks me in the shower.

It’s cinematic. And insanely hot.

But that night it was too hot. His hands were squeezing too hard, and there was too much steam, and I could feel myself overheating, getting more and more light-headed. When I felt myself swaying during a bad dizzy spell, I realized I needed to stop, so I let myself sag forward and rested my forehead against my arm on the glass. Everything was so hazy, I barely noticed that Armie had stopped thrusting.

“Tim?”

I could barely hear him, he sounded so far away.

“TIMMY.”

A wave of nausea rolled over me and I didn’t dare open my mouth. I cursed myself for eating that lunchmeat earlier that I _knew_ was sketchy, which was now ruining this fantastic shower fuck.

I felt Armie’s fingers dig into my ribs, and then a blast of cold air as I felt him moving me around, and then somehow I was sitting on the toilet and it was taking all of my concentration not to fall off. I felt his steadying hands on my thighs, but I knew if I opened my eyes I’d tip over, and hadn’t I embarrassed myself enough for one day? I couldn’t stop shaking, and god, I was afraid he’d never fuck me again if I passed out now.

I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there when I felt Armie’s fingers brush against my forehead, and suddenly my stomach rolled, as if his touch had jolted my body out of the haze it’d been swimming in. That ironclad dude-you’re-gonna-vomit- _right-now_ certainty crashed over me, so I launched myself at the sink with a fierce determination to _not_ puke all over my hot boyfriend. In my blind panic, I did almost knock him over, but I figured that was less embarrassing than nearly fainting mid-fuck and spewing chunks all down his perfect, glistening chest, so I didn’t dwell on it. Plus, my painfully cramping stomach and the bitter acid forcing itself up and out were pretty good distractions from the mortification. And anyway, lord knows I’ve watched Armie make an idiot of himself a few times, and it never has and never will affect how I feel about him.

When I was sure there was nothing left in my stomach, I coughed and spit a few times to make sure all the bile was out, and as soon as my heart stopped racing, I started to feel better. The nausea and dizziness were gone, and prayed that meant it was over. I _hate_ throwing up. I rinsed out my mouth while Armie rubbed circles on my back, and unfortunately I was feeling well enough for the embarrassment to come back as it occurred to me that he’d been standing beside me watching me vomit the whole time, but… I was too tired to deal with it, so I tried to let it go. Just as goosebumps started to break out all over my body – I was still naked and damp after all – I felt Armie drape a soft towel over my shoulders and rub my arms and back.

“Better now?”

Ugh, thank god. I raised my head slightly and gave him what I’m pretty sure was a pathetic, shaky smile in the mirror, and croaked out, “Bad lunchmeat.” My throat was painfully raw, and I wasn’t up to a longer explanation.

He snorted and pulled me toward the bed, his hand warm on my waist, and as soon as I sat down, a wave of exhaustion crashed over me and I rolled onto my side, curling in on myself while I desperately tried to keep my eyes open. We had plans with friends in a little while, and I really didn’t have time to rest if we were going to be even close to on time. But then my stomach clenched with a mild cramp and my eyelids started to feel like lead, and I couldn’t bring myself to worry about it. I felt the mattress dip as Armie sat down next to me, and then the warm length of his leg pressed gently against my back. His lips brushed over my ear, and his fingers were warm when he pushed my hair off my face, and I thought maybe he wasn’t too worried about our plans, either. He hadn’t said anything, after all, and his gentle touches were obviously meant to soothe and relax me. I breathed evenly until I felt my stomach settle, then I focused on the sensation of his fingers massaging my scalp until I fell asleep.

>>>>>

I woke up slowly, feeling groggy and fatigued, and it took me a minute to remember what was going on. How long was I asleep?

I reached up to brush back my still cold, damp hair while I rolled onto my back, and my arm hit something soft and solid. I opened my eyes in surprise to see Armie smiling down at me. He was still sitting next to me, but he must have gotten up while I was asleep, because he had sweatpants on. Sweatpants and no shirt, I noticed with interest.

But… wait. I looked at the clock, and then back at Armie, confused. We _were_ late, so why wasn’t he dressed to go out? I started to roll toward the edge of the bed, saying, “Shit, Armie, we need to get dressed,” but he just laughed and wrapped his hand around my arm to stop me.

“Don’t be silly, we’re not going anywhere. I already called Nick.”

I stared at him, surprised. I could hear how bad I sounded, and I did feel kind of weirdly hot, but we’d made these plans a week ago. Actually, _he_ made these plans a week ago, so even more reason.

“You should go.”

No need for us both to miss out.

A look of… something, flashed across his face, and he looked me up and down with an unhappy expression, making me wonder how bad I looked. But he just said, “Nope, you’re stuck with me,” in that don’t-even-think-about-arguing tone he uses when he thinks I’m being difficult, so… Whatever. I’m too tired to argue anyway, and isn’t that what I’d been wanting, a night in for the two of us?

My idiotic shy smile flashed across my face before I could stop it, so I flopped back on the bed in a futile attempt to hide it. Armie liberated my towel from where I’d shoved it between the covers and pulled me back upright so he could dry my hair. He rubbed the towel over my head with an adorable look of earnest concentration, and I stared at his face until he felt my gaze and looked down at me. He grinned at me and we just sort of… watched each other while he kept drying my hair, and we didn’t break eye contact until I started shivering again. He wrapped the towel tightly back around me and rubbed my back while I sink into his chest, and sitting there in that moment, feeling sort of crappy but cradled against his solid, warm body, his caring hands soothing me, it’s times like that that I feel so cherished, and so safe. I let my head fall against his shoulder, wishing we could stay like that all night. I was too tired to move, and the heat he was cocooning me in was making me feel drowsy.

“Thank you,” I sighed, without really meaning to say it out loud.

“For what?”

He sounded surprised, and I wondered if he knew how aware I was of everything he does for me. And I wondered if he knew how much I hate being the one always needing help. Reassurance. A shoulder to cry on.

“For taking care of me. For staying with me. I’m sorry about the bathroom.”

I added the last bit with a wince as the memory of throwing up in the sink flashed through my mind, and I remembered that I’d have to clean that up at some point. Fantastic.

He didn’t respond, and I started to wonder if he was thinking about the sink, too, but then he gave me a squeeze and tilted my head up to look at him, his hand cool against my hot cheek, and he kissed me gently on the mouth. It was a brief kiss, and I realized with a flash of self-consciousness that I hadn’t brushed my teeth since I’d thrown up, and I sat back immediately when he started to pull away.

He tossed some of my lounge around clothes onto the bed, and I fumbled to put them on sitting down before he took them from me and started helping. I was too exhausted by that point to feel infantilized by him _dressing_ me, especially considering how heavy and sluggish and uncoordinated my limbs felt.

I just… hoped he didn’t resent how much help I seem to need sometimes.

I was glad to be dragged out of that depressing thought spiral when Armie put a glass of water in my hand, and I stared at it with apprehension. I took stock and my stomach did feel fine, but I had just puked an hour ago, and I was nervous to put anything into it, even water.

“That’s for drinking, Timmy,” he said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. Asshole. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a fever, and you don’t want to get dehydrated.”

I rolled my eyes at him, but that’s when I realized the uncomfortable heat I’d been feeling right under the surface of my skin was because I had a fever, and I knew he was right. And because I’m me, I gulped down the water too fast and choked, and I had to hack some up onto the comforter to get my breath back. I blushed when I looked up and he was just standing there watching me suck in gulps of air.

“Oh shit, I’m—“

“Nope, none of that. I need to change the sheets anyway, so let’s get you settled on the couch while I do that.”

He pointed me toward the couch while he flipped to a random channel and put on some old Western, and then he headed back into the bedroom. I was a little embarrassed that he was having to change the sheets because of me, but I definitely hadn’t been looking forward to getting back into a damp bed later, so I let our comfort win out over my embarrassment.

I hadn’t even realized I’d dozed off, but the next thing I knew he was waking me up with a hand on my shoulder and soft words. I could only bring myself to wake up halfway, but he didn’t seem to mind, just shifting me around so he could slide in behind me, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me fully on top of him.

I drifted off again to the calming feeling of his fingers in my hair, but an icy chill roused me to just below the surface of wakefulness. I was aware that I was (somehow) shivering on top of the furnace that is my boyfriend, but before I became more uncomfortable and woke up fully, I felt something soft and warm settled over me. Armie was still running his fingers soothingly through my hair, I could hear his steady heartbeat beneath my cheek, and I felt so insanely safe and cared for again. I slipped back under thinking the incredibly sappy thought that maybe eating that bad lunchmeat hadn’t been the worst idea after all.

I woke up a few times to the sound of gunfire, or shouting, or women screaming on the TV, but the chill was gone, and I was so warm wrapped in Armie’s arms that I couldn’t stay awake for any stretch of time. I knew he’d be annoyed with me for thinking this, but the insecure side of me was kind of amazed that every time I woke up, he was still there, solid and warm beneath me, his strong arms wrapped loosely around me.

God, I love him so much it hurts sometimes.

>>>>>

I finally fell asleep with some finality, and the next time I opened my eyes, Armie and I were wrapped around each other in bed. I wracked my brain and couldn’t come up with even a hazy memory of moving from the couch, but with how out of it I was the night before, I guess I wasn’t really surprised.

There was a watery light coming in through the windows, the kind just before sunrise, and I felt a thousand times better. I was desperate for some water though, so I slowly twisted out of Armie’s embrace, careful not to wake him. I figured he needed his sleep with how diligently he’d been attending to me. I brushed aside the hair that had fallen across his forehead and kissed his temple, and I felt my lips curve up in a smile when he smiled in his sleep. I ended up asking him a few months later if anyone had ever told him he does that, because I freaking love it. He’d blushed and said no, he hadn’t known, and I’d almost burst from how adorable he was.

I carefully climbed off the bed and crept out to the kitchen, and I was on my second glass of water when I heard movement in the bedroom as Armie shifted around in bed. He appeared in the doorway a minute later, his hair sticking up in every direction and his eyes squinted slightly in concern. I smiled when he spotted me, and he smiled back as relief flashed across his face. Despite the guilt and resentment I was still feeling (resentment of myself, to be clear, not him. Never him), I was grateful to him for taking such good care of me.

He placed his hand on the back of my neck and pulled me toward him until he could lean his forehead against mine.

“Feeling better? You feel cooler.”

“Yeah, I feel fine. Just gross. I need to shower, I must have been sweating all night.”

I knew the sheets must have been soaked, if my wet t-shirt was anything to go by, and I was embarrassed that he’d had to sleep next to me all night like that, underneath me and wrapped around me, my sweat probably soaking into his skin. I wondered briefly why he hadn’t just left me on the couch.

“No more sketchy lunchmeat then?”

Jesus, no, my stomach was clenching just thinking about it. I could only shake my head, and he chuckled a little, but not unkindly, and he more cautiously asked, “Want to have some breakfast in a bit? You’re still a little pale, you should probably eat something.”

Uhh, definitely no. I supposed I’d have to eat again at some point, but I felt another flash of embarrassment as I was reminded of the mess I’d left in the bathroom. At least it hadn’t been diarrhea, jesus, imagine?

But I wasn’t about to say all that, obviously, so I settled for a noncommittal, “Mmm… Maybe.”

“Something plain.”

“Definitely something plain.”

I thought maybe I’d be able to stomach some toast in a while. Maybe some oatmeal. Maybe. My stomach flipped again and I headed toward the shower, eager to peel off my sweaty clothes and wash off the sickness. I heard Armie following behind me, and as I stripped and turned on the water – setting it to cool, no way was I risking the hot water making me dizzy or queasy again – I glanced around and noticed that the sink was empty and he’d apparently cleaned everything up.

I could barely look him in the eye when he got into the shower with me, so I concentrated on scrubbing my skin and keeping to myself, and I was grateful when he seemed to follow my lead and made no move to touch me. He got out pretty quickly after rinsing off, and I stayed in a while longer to shampoo and then soap up a second time, giving myself time to try to will away the embarrassment. I knew he wouldn’t want me to feel so self-conscious, and I also knew that were our positions reversed, I’d do everything in my power to convince him he had nothing to feel bad about.

By the time I finished scrubbing away my embarrassment and got out, Armie was dressed in one of his sexier casual daytime looks, fitted jeans and a black, short-sleeve V-neck. My eyes involuntarily scanned up and down his body, and I was drifting off into the-magnificence-that-is-Armie-Hammer-land when I caught him watching me, and I blushed hard.

He flashed me a cocky, blinding smile on his way out of the bedroom, and as I watched him go, his ass on perfect display in those tight jeans, I willed my still fatigued body to finishing recovering ASAP, so we could finish last night's fuck.


	3. Armie

God, I love how he smells in the shower, hot and wet and clean. I couldn’t believe we hadn’t done this since Monday.

It was hard to get a good grip with the water running down his body, but I knew he’d like the marks I was leaving, he always does. He’d run his fingers over them the next day and look at me with that fucking sexy grin.

I was pounding into him hard, both of us about to come, when he moaned and slumped forward, and I didn’t know what was going on because I knew he come yet. He barely caught himself, and I had to lurch forward to grab him around the chest and catch us both against the glass.

“Tim?” I asked, struggling to slow down my breathing while he slumped between me and the glass wall. I could feel him trembling, and his eyes were squeezed shut like he was in pain.

“TIMMY.”

He didn’t respond, and my heartrate shot up when he felt like dead weight as I dragged him out of the shower, pinned against my chest. He stumbled and landed heavily on the toilet, nearly falling off before I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him upright. He dropped his head into his hands, his elbows on his knees, and I didn’t know what else to do so I grabbed his thighs to steady him and prayed to whatever deity was nearby that he wasn’t about to pass out.

I was sitting there rubbing his thighs, feeling like an idiot while I cast about for something halfway useful to do, when I reached up to brush his dripping hair off his forehead. The second I touched him, he made eye contact with this look of… terror, I think, in his eyes, and then he almost knocked me over lunging toward the counter. By the time I got my feet under me and stood up, he was vomiting violently into the sink. I figured it was probably food poisoning, right? Or maybe the flu?

I steadied him a little and then rubbed his back while he coughed and spit and rinsed out his mouth. He already looked better, less pale and shaky, and as soon as I felt the relief wash over me, I realized I was freezing my dick off as the hot water evaporated from my skin. I knew the kid I’ve seen shivering on a hot Italian afternoon must have been too, so I grabbed two towels from the rack, draped one over his shoulders, gave him a bit of a rubdown both to dry him off and warm him up, and then wrapped mine around my waist.

“Better now?”

He nodded at me in the mirror, smiling faintly, and croaked, “Bad lunchmeat.”

Ah, so food poisoning, then.

He looked exhausted, so I pulled him to the bed and was slightly surprised when he didn’t resist, because we should have been getting dressed to go out. But he just waited patiently for me to pull back to covers, and then he dropped heavily to the bed, curling up on his side. I remembered the last time I had food poisoning, after trying, against my better judgement, this obviously sketchy new restaurant (which ended up closing three months later, go figure). After a few hours spent puking, I could barely keep my eyes open, and I hadn’t woken up until the following afternoon.

I brushed the hair off his face and then thread my fingers through the strands, rubbing his scalp while I watched his eyes close and his body relax as he fell asleep. He moaned and jerked around a bit even after he’d fallen asleep, he was obviously still uncomfortable, and I crossed my fingers that he was done throwing up.

Being careful not to wake him, I eventually got up to finish drying off and get dressed. In sweatpants, because we were obviously staying in. I cleaned up the kitchen and put some water by the bed in case he woke up, then I called Nick while I cleaned out the bathroom sink, trying to focus on the conversation and not on what I was doing. I was at least happy I wasn’t cleaning up vomit spewed across the bathroom floor.

It took a few minutes for the call to connect, and when it did, Nick was practically shouting over the music in the background.

“Hello?”

“Hey man, we’re not coming.”

“No, come on, Armie! Why not?”

I knew he wasn’t going to be happy, but that couldn’t be helped.

“Timmy’s sick, we’re staying in.”

“Oh. Shit. Is he okay?”

“Yeah, we’re pretty sure it’s food poisoning. He’ll be fine, but he’s definitely not up for going out tonight.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I’d promised to help him pick out a new suit.

“All right yeah, that sounds good. Tell him to feel better.”

“Will do.”

I grabbed a beer and sat back down on the bed, and my stomach dropped when I looked down at him. He had settled down and was lying still, and he looked so small and sick. His face was shiny with sweat, and he just looked… vulnerable, and it was totally irrational, but my hand was halfway to his shoulder to shake him awake before I realized what I was doing and stopped myself. I kicked myself for almost giving in to my ridiculous overprotectiveness; he was _fine_ , for god’s sake, it was just food poisoning.

Timmy sighed and rolled over then, running his hand through his hair as he drifted awake. His arm hit my leg when he settled on his back, and his eyes popped open in surprise, so I smiled down at him. He just furrowed his brow and looked over at the clock and then back at me, throwing me this adorably confused look before moving to get up.

“Shit, Armie, we need to get dressed.”

His voice was raspy and weak, and I laughed before I could stop myself. As if he was in any state to go out. His voice was wrecked, his face and chest were flushed, and his skin felt hot when I grabbed his arm. I cursed internally, realizing he had a fever.

“Don’t be silly, we’re not going anywhere. I already called Nick.”

He cocked an eyebrow, and after a moment said, “You should go.”

I was confused, because I knew he’d been wanting a night in. I mean, these obviously weren’t the circumstances he’d been imagining, but still. So, not really sure how to answer that, I tried for flippant and casual, saying, “Nope, you’re stuck with me,” and hoped he wouldn’t argue.

It really gave me pause though, because it made me wonder how much of an asshole he thought I was if he thought I would leave him alone when he was less than an hour out from vomiting and nearly passing out. And when he was clearly still sick.

He shot me an uncertain half smile but seemed to accept my answer, luckily, and he flopped back down on the bed. I liberated his towel from where it was wedged between the sheets and pulled him back up so I could dry his hair the rest of the way, and I moved my eyes from his hair to his face when I felt him staring. He was gazing up at me with this sweet, dare I say, adoring little smile on his lips, and I grinned down at him as a wave of fondness flowed through me.

The moment was broken when a violent shiver wracked his body; I wrapped the towel and my arms around him and rubbed his back when he sort of sunk into me. His damp hair was cold on my shoulder, and he felt a little feverish, and I tried not to be too pissed at myself for letting him fall asleep without drying off.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, his breath hot against my skin.

“For what?”

He sighed and said, “For taking care of me. For staying with me. I’m sorry about the bathroom.”

Now, it wasn’t news to either of us that Timmy was a little insecure in our relationship. He always had been, no matter how many times and in how many ways I’d told and shown him how brilliant he is, how beautiful, how hilarious, how he’s way too good for this oaf. And sometimes I wondered if we’d get past this place Timmy seemed to be stuck in, where he _apologizes_ for getting sick, as if it’s some great burden on me. I knew we’d need to talk about all of this at some point, but I also knew it would be pointless to do it right then, with how shitty he was feeling, and how tired he was, so I just kissed him to shut him up. And to reassure him, if he’d take it that way.

His mouth felt like a furnace when it opened against mine, reminding me that I really needed to get him dry and dressed.

I broke away, somehow managing to ignore the sound of disappointment he made in his throat, and I grabbed him some clothes and threw them onto the bed. I debated for a minute whether I should grab him a sweatshirt too, since the kid is always, always cold, but I knew he had a fever, so I needed to let his body temperature come down, right? I finally decided against the sweatshirt (he’d be cuddled up to me anyway, and he’s said more than once that I’m his own personal furnace), and starting dressing him like a doll. And as ridiculous as I knew that was… I didn’t hate it.

He was sluggish putting the clothes on and after watching him struggle for a minute, I took pity on him and lent a hand. His arms felt kind of limp when I pulled them through the t-shirt sleeves, and his version of “help me put your sweatpants on, come on, Tim,” was to wriggle around on his back and lift his butt two inches off the mattress. He was looking more and more exhausted with each passing minute, so once he was dressed, I handed him the water glass I’d set by the bed earlier, wanting him to get it down before he fell back asleep.

He just stared at it.

“That’s for drinking, Timmy. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a fever, and you don’t want to get dehydrated.”

He rolled his eyes, but he nodded and downed the water, too quickly, of course, choking and hacking some back up onto the comforter. Jesus, he’s a mess.

I snorted and cut off his apology as soon as he opened his mouth, and he followed me to the living room with a deep blush on his face. I put on an old movie that was playing on cable and settled him on the couch, then I ran back into the bedroom to change the damp sheets and tidy up a bit. When I got back out to the living room no more than five minutes later, he had already dozed off, sprawled across the couch. I let myself look at him for a minute, taking in his delicate features, enhanced in that moment by his flushed cheeks and his shiny, parted lips. His hair was wild, a spray of curls across the pillow, and I pulled my finger through one before letting it trail the rest of the way down the curve of his face. He sighed at my touch and scrunched his shoulder up toward where my finger was, and I felt my lips pull up in a smile at how adorable he was, even in his sleep. Good thing I already knew I was a goddamn fool for this kid, huh?

I shook his shoulder gently and said, softly, “Hey Tim, wake up for a sec,” trying to wake him up just enough to slide in behind him. Then I wrapped my arms around his body, all snuggly and warm in his soft sleep clothes, and shifted him more or less on top of me. Despite my furnace-like qualities, he started to shiver after a few minutes, so I pulled the blanket from the back of the couch over him, glad I’d thought to put socks on his glacial feet.

His head was heavy against my chest, and his eyes were half closed, so I ran my fingers slowly through his hair, tracing them down his neck and back and up again in a loop, hoping the repetitive pattern would lull him back to sleep. His eyes quickly drifted closed, and his body slowly relaxed, the tension releasing from his muscles as he fell more deeply asleep. He looked so young, all flushed and small, curled up on top of me with his hair tickling my neck. I ran my thumb over the pink spot on his cheek, and his skin felt warm, despite his chills.

That irritating, overwhelming urge to protect him surged through me again, and I did my best to shove it back down. He already resents how much I take care of him, which he made painfully clear when he snapped and yelled at me about it one night a few months back. Or rather, he resents how much he’s _needed_ taking care of, which is how he sees it. He wants to be able to take care of himself, and he can, of course he can. I’ve never doubted that for a second, but he definitely has. But my point is, why should he have to all the damn time if I’m there to lighten the load a little? I mean, he does the same for me, and he damn well knows it.

I was grateful when sudden gunfire on the TV yanked me out of that pointless train of thought, and I heard him inhale sharply as he tightened his arms around me, startled awake by the noise. When I looked down, he was staring at the movie through half-open eyes, but within seconds, he relaxed again and his eyes slid closed. He was drifting in and out, only lightly asleep, and I tried not to wake him when he flushed red again, and I pushed the blanket down to his waist. I love the kid so fucking much, but it was still sort of surprising to realize how safe and… content? Peaceful? I felt lying there with him, even though we were missing plans we’d made with friends, even though he was sick and sweaty and exhausted. All I felt was his reassuring weight on top of me, grounding me.

I zoned out for a while, and eventually, I felt my eyes getting heavier, and the next thing I knew, I was opening them to a quiet, dark apartment. I have the TV on an autotimer that shuts it off at midnight, so god knows how long we’d been asleep, but I figured it’d been a while when I shifted on the couch and my back twinged. Timmy’s breath was hot on my chest, slow and even, and I didn’t want to wake him, but I knew I had to get off the couch or I wouldn’t be able to stand up straight in the morning. And then I’d be in for a day of _hilarious_ old man jokes from my little munchkin. So moving slowly, I sat up and shifted him onto my lap, sliding my arms behind his shoulders and under his knees. I froze when he murmured and wriggled deeper into me, tightening his grip where he’s closed his hand around my arm, but he stayed blessedly asleep. His hair was damp against my neck again, and I was confused for a second before I realized it was damp with sweat, and I hoped that meant his fever was gone. Either way, I figured I should leave the blanket over him, not wanting a cold draft on the way to the bedroom to wake him.

When I was sure he’d settled back down, I stood with him in my arms, and, appreciating our size difference for about the millionth time, I carefully carried him to bed. I managed not to laugh and jostle him when the image of him trying to do the same for me popped into my head. He immediately curled around a pillow when I laid him down on the bed, and when I laid down next to him and he turned over in his sleep to cuddle into me, he kept it clutched to his stomach. I wondered if he still had a stomachache. Knowing there was nothing I could do if he did, I curled around him and buried my face in his hair. It still smelled a little minty from his shampoo, the scent almost but not quite covering up the faint sick/sweaty smell I could detect underneath it. I felt my lips curl into a smile as I fell asleep to the comforting scent of _him_.

>>>>>

The room was bright with sunlight the next time I woke up, and I took a minute to stretch and groan before I realized I was alone in bed. The sheets were still warm on his side, so I knew he hadn’t been gone long, so I propped myself up on one elbow and listened, hoping to hear some clue to where he was. When I didn’t hear any noise coming from the bathroom, I let myself hope he wasn’t sick again, and rolled out of bed to go searching. I found him drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, and relief flooded through me when I saw that he looked a thousand times better.

His smile when he noticed me actually took my breath away for a second. I’m such a sucker for this kid, and I had to clear my throat before I could ask if he was “feeling better?”, foregoing the motherly back of hand on the forehead and just leaning my forehead against his. He did feel cooler, and his eyes weren’t glassy when they met mine.

“You feel cooler.”

“Yeah, I feel fine. Just gross. I really need to shower, I must have been sweating all night.”

His voice was still wrecked, though stronger than last night, and he had been, sweating, so much so that I was going to have to change the sheets again and wash the comforter. But he was already blushing and averting his eyes, and I didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did, so I keep that to myself. As much as I wanted to shake him and remind him that we all get sick and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about and I _like_ taking care of him, I’d just change everything out without mentioning it, and hope he didn’t ask.

“No more sketchy lunchmeat then?”

I swear his skin tinged green and he just shook his head. I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling, but I make a mental note not to bring it up again. But… “Want to have some breakfast in a bit?” I figured he should probably eat something, right? If he didn’t feel nauseous?

“You’re still a little pale, you should probably eat something.”

His eyes flicked toward the bathroom, and he blushed again.

“Mmm… Maybe.”

“Something plain.”

“Definitely something plain.”

Without comment, he set his glass in the sink and headed toward the shower, so I followed behind, stripping off my sweats as I went. I needed to rinse his dried sweat off my skin, at the very least, so I jumped In with him and was taken aback when I felt how cool he’d set the water. He glanced at me self-consciously and made no move to touch me, and he was scrubbing his skin way harder than he normally does. I figured he could use some space, so once I’d rinsed off, I give him a big, hopefully reassuring, smile, got out, toweled off, and left the bathroom to get dressed, leaving him to his scrubbing.

While I listened to the shower run for an unnecessarily long time, I realized that this was the sickest I’d seen Timmy. And with how insecure he already could be in our relationship, and with how I took care of him last night… I had enough time to really start to worry about the fallout of the damn lunchmeat.

I was pretty nervous by the time he came out of the bathroom, and I was ready for damage control, but I knew instantly I shouldn’t have worried when his eyes flicked up and down my body appreciatively before he caught me watching him and blushed. He flashed me that sheepish grin he told me once, in frustration, is completely involuntary when he’s embarrassed, and I returned it with a blinding smile of my own.

I sauntered out of the bedroom, debating how long Timmy would need to recover from vomitgate before we could finish last night’s fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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